More on Language (& Other Things...)

More on Language

In which I tie a letter from Saturday's Pittsburgh-Post Gazette with Harry Potter. Stay with me now. Rowling really does have some great points to make to her young and not-so-young audience.

Reader's of the book know that Voldemort is frequently referred to (in whispers, no less) by other characters as “He Who Must Not be Named” or “You Know Who”, thus giving Voldemort power. “Fear of the name increase fear of the thing” Hermione says in one book, and Rowling emphasizes this fear by having her characters gasp, whimper, wince and chastise anyone brave enough to call “You Know Who” by his name.

Contrast this with Harry, who always calls the villain by his name and Dumbledore who actually addresses Voldemort by his birth name, Tom. By naming him, they take away some of his power. Dumbledore's insistence on calling Voldemort by his birth name is especially powerful because it recognizes Voldemort's abandoned humanity. Perhaps Voldemort's destruction lies in acknowledging the remaining shadows of his human self?

Anyway...

How does this tie in with the letter writer? The recent comments by Don Imus and sidekick, in which they referred to the Rutgers women's basketball as “nappy haired ho's” and subsequent whining over the African-American community's nerve to call the two men out on their behavior when the same words are used with astonishing frequency in rap music*, set off a series of letters in the paper. Now that the media is gorging itself at the trough of Virginia Tech shootings and willfully ignoring the President's continuing march forward to strip prisoners of their civil liberties, women of the right to make medical decisions without the interference of government, and the continuing slaughter of ill-equipped soldiers and innocent Iraqi's, the volume of letters has returned to normal.

Returning to topic...

It is an enormous pet peeve on mine, when reading or discussing language, to have to listen to other people refer to taboo words as “the B-word”, “the N-word” or “the F-word”. If we, as people, are ever to get the point in which such words are not used in a hurtful or hateful manner, then we must begin by actually naming the word we are discussing.

To wit, bitch, nigger and fuck. One I use never (except in the context of this type of conversation), one I use rarely and one I use with enough frequency to have earned the reputation of having a slightly foul mouth.

To read a letter to the editor in which the writer comes our for eliminating the negative usage of such words without actually bringing herself to name the words makes me crazy. How are we to have civility in discourse if we cannot have maturity? How are we ever going to acknowledge the power of context in the usage of such words? Have we really become so illiterate of a society that we assume others are going to be offended by using such language in an editorial? And when are people going to understand that language is a living organism?

*Setting aside the false notion that 100% of modern rap music is performed exclusively by young, African-American men.

& Other Things...

Thing 1:

I think I am going to give up on the New York Times travel section. I don't know what audience they are writing for, but it is certainly not for my little middle-class self. This Sunday has an article on the best steak frites in Paris. Since I am returning to the city this July, I have a vested interest in knowing where one might find such a meal. The writer, Mark Bitteman, lists five places, three of which start at 50 Euros for a full meal, two of the which don't include drinks. Since when did 50-60 Euro per person with moderate alcohol consumption become “not outrageously expensive”? Eighty-one dollars for a three course meal with one glass of wine? Is he serious?

I've noticed this trend in a lot of the travel articles recently. The writers attempt to show readers how they too, can have a great time on a smaller budget, then proceed to recommend hotels that start at $150.00 a night and restaurants in which the only meal you can get for under $20.00 is an appetizer. I question what reality these writers are living in, because it is certainly NOT MINE.

Thing 2:
I'm alone this weekend. J has scampered off to Niagara Falls NY/ONT to attend a bachelor party, the first of two such trips he will be taking during the wedding season.

I took full advantage of this fact by taking myself to the movies yesterday to see “Fauteuils d'orchestre” (Avenue Montaigne), a sweet, fluffy little French film. I loved it. The movie was completely pointless, its only purpose was to entertain an audience for two hours. An audience made up of senior citizen couples and me, the lone single and youngest person in the theater. And I am almost thirty-four years old.

Thing 3:
I shall never ignore the exercise gods again. I tried to after the several weeks of insomina I suffered over the winter after I injured my shoulder and had to cut back on my workouts. I almost suceeded. Until yesterday, when I tried on some clothes and discovered that I could fit comfortably into a pair of shorts a size smaller then I usually wear.

Query

Am I the only person who thinks that this:


Bears a striking resemblance to this...

Blue Skies

In spite of the Penguins failure to make it out of the first round of the playoffs, life is good in Pittsburgh these days. Three straight days of sun, blue skies and warmth will do that to a person.

Naturally I spent one of those three days inside.

I am not a very tidy person. I'll do dishes and scrub the toilet and my things are put away because otherwise I would never remember where I put anything down. Other household chores such as vacuuming and dusting I allow to slide until the dust bunnies are the size of actual bunnies and the cats are chasing them down for their own amusement. Such was the condition of my study when I decided to clean yesterday.

It took five hours. In five hours I sent the colony of giant dust bunnies to a dignified death, cleared and dusted all my bookshelves, wiped the books down and managed to create a pile of discarded volumes for Goodwill. There is an actual space at my first-apartment-kitchen-table for my laptop and ample room to set up my easel if I feel like painting. There is even a placeholder for the final Harry Potter novel on the shelves.

Unfortunately, as part of the project I also shelved all the books I have not read yet, so I had to go back through and mark them so I would not forget. And the printer is sitting in the bedroom until I can find a place for it elsewhere.

And my ever increasing collection of funky little guidebooks of Paris is living on the table I just managed to clear off. The latest addition to the collection is the Moleskin City Notebook Paris, which I picked up in Barnes and Noble on Friday night before attending the late showing of Hot Fuzz.

Dear Ryan Malone

While your playing improved significantly this year, I still think your attitude could use some adjustment and that it is a little bit sad that Sidney Crosby is a better representative of this city then you, a "hometown boy".

That being said, OH MY GOD, you are the cutest man in street clothes.

So, did you enjoy checking out all the college girls walking through Market Square this afternoon?

Post Season Play – Part II

Penguins 1 2 – Senators 4 (at the end of Period 2)
Series: 1 - 2 ( I think)

First Period

• I never noticed how really old Mellon Arena is on television until tonight. It seems so small and dinky. The fan noise is unbelievable. I can't imagine how loud it is going to be on Tuesday night, especially if the Penguins take a lead in the series.
• Jeff Jimerson sang both anthems. Jimerson's claim to fame, aside from being the go-to singer for Penguins, Pirates and Steelers games, is his role as “Anthem Singer” in the 1995 film Sudden Death. I have heard him sing many times and have never heard him as flat as he was tonight. It sounded like a combination of bad sound and a bad cold.
• Gary Roberts scores less than a minute into the first period, off a missed shot on the post. Ray Emery is getting pounded by shots, but not enough of them are coming off of rebounds. The team is putting a lot of pressure by collapsing around Emery whenever they get the puck near the Senators net, but I'm not sure that is the most effective way to get Emery off his game. Two of the Penguins goals last night came by distracting Emery, having one of our more high-profile players basically camp right next to the net.
• Is is a good sign or a bad one when the opposing team pulls their goalie with eight and half minutes remaining in the first period? Senators are only down by 1 and a lot can happen in the 2.5 periods remaining.
• Have the Penguins noticed that the referees are not going to call anything against the Senators yet? A two minutes cross-checking penalty on Dany Heatley is nice, but the Penguins are definitely being held to a higher standard.
• Crap, the phone is ringing. Do people not know that there is a playoff game on tonight? Whoever it was did not leave a message.
• Another penalty on the Senators. Penalty count now even, each team with 2 called. Senators penalty killing is very tight. The Penguins are not going getting to much out of them unless they increase the intensity, which does not seem possible.
• Senators score. Marc-Andre caught the puck in his pads, but did not freeze it. Since the play was not whistled dead, the Senators scored by jamming it through. They also knocked the net loose.

Score at the end of first period: Penguins 1 - Senators 1.

Second Period

• Why do I find Dan Potash so annoying? Possibly because I find any sport analyst sent to interview players in between periods annoying. The only interview I ever enjoyed was last year's with Darius Kasparaitis, in which Kaspar walked back into the shot at the completion of the interview, yelled “Go Steelers” and walked back out towards the locker room.*
• Therrien scratched Georges Laraque again and is playing Ronald Petrovicky. A friend joked during yesterday's game that Therrien must be hoping that Petrovicky will take out a Senator by accident. Petrovicky has sat out the majority of games and gave an opposing player a concussion during one of his rare regular season appearances.
• Both teams a bit sluggish at the beginning of the second period. Arena a bit quieter also.
• Senators score at 17:47 due to a defensive breakdown. Penguins left Mike Comrie wide open to score on a deflection.
• Gary Roberts gets into a punching match with Jason Spezza. Jarrko Rutuu helps it along by opening the door and pushing Spezza back towards the ice.
• Penguins get called for another penalty, hooking on Malkin. Current count Penguins 4 – Senators 3.
• Daniel Alfredsson scores the Senators third goal on the subsequent Power Play. The Penguins have to get back into this game. Defense is incredibly weak and the Senators are getting off far too many shots on goal.
• Colby Armstrong legally hits Patrick Eaves and almost knocks him out. A fight ensues between Maxime Talbot and Dean McAmmond when members of the Senators attempt to jump Colby from behind. Unfortunately, Talbot loses the fight. Patrick Eaves is escorted from the ice on a stretcher. Bryan Murray** will be apoplectic tomorrow morning.
• Mario Lemieux in the arena tonight.
• Therrien needs to explain to the boys the concept of rebound – not just for basketball any more.
• Mike Comrie called for Holding. Current count Penguins 5 – Senators 5. I'm not sure which penalties I missed.
• Dan Potash announces that Patrick Eaves has a concussion.
• Daniel Alfredsson scores again. The crowd goes quiet.

Score at the end of the second period: Penguins 1 – Senators 4.

*Kaspar played for the Penguins from 1996 – 2002.
**Bryan Murray is the Senators head coach and known for sniping at and about Penguins players. Earlier this season he exchanged words with Crosby about his foul mouth, provoking an exchange between himself and Therrien.

Third Period

I can't watch period three. Here is the official score sheet. How I went this long as a fan without knowing that they publish the score sheets online, I'll never know.

Post Season Play, Part I

Series Tied 1-1

Recap:
Game 1: Penguins 3 – Senators 6

I did not watch most of Game 1. Three minutes into the first period the Senators scored twice, a telling indication that the rest of the evening was going to be an unmitigated disaster for the Penguins. Which, from all news accounts, is what happened as defense, offense and goal tending fell apart. I spent the evening reading instead, with J bringing me occasional updates.

Game 2: Penguins 4 – Senators 3

I did not plan on watching Game 2 either. Friends called and asked us to join them at the Carson Street Saloon for a collective playoff viewing experience. It turned out to be enormous fun and I won a t-shirt from one of the local radio stations.

Senators fans take on our fine tradition of booing players (well, one specific player) and “respectfully” boo Sidney Crosby every time he touches the puck. Minor whining ensues, but most admit that we bought it on ourselves and that booing is inevitable during a playoff run.

Emerick and Edzo interpret Armstrong's collision with Ray Emery as “accidental” and “unavoidable”. Penguins fans everywhere laugh as the collision was neither. It was classic Armstrong, repeatedly tweak on a more “sensitive” opponent until he snaps. This is not the first time he has knocked Emery around and will not be the last in this series or either player's career.

Not that I condone crashing a goalie, I don't. But Ray Emery is not above throwing down when he feels violated and Colby is well known, at least in Pittsburgh, for exploiting any kind of vulnerability that will push the player and his team off balance mentally. This, coupled with his willingness to actually throw a punch instead of hiding behind referees, is the reason why he is a popular player in Pittsburgh. He may not always win the fight, but he is always 100% in the game.

It was a completely different team on the ice last night. Although the Senators out shot the Penguins by a a significant margin, a tight defense and premier goal tending carried the team from behind into a win.

There is something magical about being a Penguins fan right now. Since I never expected the team to make it into the playoffs so soon, every additional game is a gift. I still think Ottawa will take the series in seven games, but I am excited nonetheless to have the opportunity to see such a high level of play from my team and expect them to do some damage to the Senators.

A Week Late But...

Still incredibly interesting.

Joshua Bell plays (for free) in a D.C. Metro Station.

God Help Us (Especially Penguins Fans)

Because the deranged leprechaun, Don Cherry, will be commenting for NBC during the Stanley Cup finals

And Maggie the Monkey has chosen the Penguins to make it into Round 2.

Ugh

I have resisted writing about Don Imus as it would be breaking my rule of not giving attention to such media figures. Additionally, he is right up there on the list of “pundits”-I-would-only-listen-to-in-hell with other “personalities” that I shall not name and it is inconsistent of me to criticize him based on news reports, rather then personal, first-hand knowledge.

But his comments about the Rutgers women's basketball team have been eating at me for almost a week. Until today, when I skimmed through Pittsburgh's Rants and Raves section of Craigslist and Salon's letters on the subject, I was unable to determine the “what” that was disturbing me. Additionally, I am conscious of the fact that anything I have to say is colored by the fact that I do occupy a more privileged position in society then the targets of Imus' comments.

The Craigslist postings were unsurprisingly unsympathetic towards the Rutgers team and their defenders and very pro Don Imus. The general tone seemed to be that Imus had said nothing wrong and those who called him out on his racist, sexist and degrading statements were trying to censor him. Many of the letters to Salon were the same, albeit in a more coherent, highbrow vein. One letter writer called it a “petty issue”, another whined that it was simply a joke that got out of hand.

But in the middle of that was some sanity (Thank You Salon!) Letter writers who pointed out that Imus and McGuirk's comments devalued the hard work and athletic talent of eight women who weren't even public figures.

Which leads me to what bothered me the most about the exchange between Imus and McGuirk. They did not target public figures*. They targeted a group of college-aged women playing in a basketball tournament. They critiqued those women, not on their ability to play ball, but on their physical appearance and presumed sexual activity. And they thought it was funny.

Coach C. Vivian Stringer responds.

*While equally reprehensible, I'm assuming that those in the public sphere are equipped to respond to such comments.

FYI

David Byrne has an interesting post up about the Copyright Royalty Board's attempt to increase rates for “non-interactive streaming services”, i.e. web, cable and satellite radio.

Apparently he is also a fellow fugitive from the law of averages.

I Have Nothing

To contribute, except that I developed a case of food poisioning from Easter dinner yesterday. I'm not quite sure what I ate to make me sick, but I'm pretty certain the "mashed" potatoes contributed. I say "mashed" as they were made with potato flakes. A fact that I was unaware of until after I had taken the first bite. Good citizen that I am, I ate them anyway.

Alas, the food posioning was too mild to keep me home from work.

In lieu of actual writing, I present:

Wigford, the Clown


Axel with Attitude

Two Hours

Is the amount of time I spent listening to our neighbors make love early this morning. “Make love” is possibly the most inaccurate description I have ever come up with. “Hot monkey screwing”, “swinging from the chandelier” and “fucking” are far better choices to describe the sounds emitting from the condo next door between the hours of 3:00 and 5:00 AM.

Because of some weirdness with the acoustics, we could not determine where the action was taking place and had no recourse for the traditional bang-on-the-wall, please-put-a-sock-in-her-mouth response two tired people who had to get up early for the ten hour drive home would normally have as a method for coping with such a situation.

First there was the initial moaning, which woke both J and myself from a sound sleep. Once we determined that a murder was not taking place, we both tried to mentally block out the sound until we heard the woman cry OH BAAABY in a slightly strangled tone of voice.

J: “Did she just say “Oh Baby?”
Me: “Yes...”

We start laughing. Quietly. In retrospect, if I had allowed myself to laugh at my normal volume, it may have cut short the evening's festivities, but at three in the morning I try to be polite.

J (with a sleepy leer): “Maybe we should show them how it is done?”
Me: “There is no way I am competing with that.”

Next there was more moaning, increasing in volume until the woman screamed out YES! YES! YES! Then blissful silence. Thinking that the amateur porn radio hour was over, I begin to drift off into sleep.

And the woman starts moaning again. Another twenty minutes of noise, another loud orgasm, more silence.

I am at the edge of sleep when round three begins. Hoping to figure out the which side the noise is coming from I get up out of bed and pace from one side of the room to the other. I contemplate going downstairs to sleep on the couch and realize that this woman is so loud that peace without earplugs is not possible. I get a drink of water.

By round four the woman is sobbing. I accidentally wake J up when I hiss “They're at it again”.

By round five the woman is finally quieter, almost whimpering. So am I.

Oddly enough, her partner never makes a sound the entire two hours.

Ottawa

Ottawa, located on the border of Ontario/Quebec, is a city with a European feel. Parliament is built on the cliffs near the river and is made up of grand stone buildings laid out in a manner resembling a campus. The street and shops signs are written in English and French and we heard both languages equally represented by store employees, gallery guards and people on the street.

J and I drove to Ottawa on Tuesday to visit the National Gallery and were greeted by a giant sculpture of a spider, “Maman”.



The museum is a modern structure with a wall of glass on one side to allow light to flood the long ramp leading up to the galleries. My original intent was to see the collection of Impressionist paintings but I ended up spending more time with the special exhibits and native collections, including paintings and sculptures done by Canadian artists.

While walking through the Canadian galleries I found myself trying to remember the artist depicted in Susan Veerland's novel The Forest Lover. I stopped in front of a written introduction to the Group of Seven, seven male artists who worked to bring the various art forms to the native tribes to the general population in Canada. At the bottom was a reference to Emily Carr, the subject of Veerland's book.

Excited, I exclaimed something (or other) out loud that caught the attention of one the museum's guards. He asked if I was enjoying my visit to the museum and if there was anything specific I had come to see. When I explained that I had been trying to remember Carr's name, he escorted me to the corner where two of her paintings hung, one from the period of time she spent in France. I was surprised to see that both were in oil (Veerland depicted her as mostly a watercolor artist) and very impressed at how familiar the guard was with the location of various works in the museum.

The two special exhibits we walked through were of works by Ron Mueck and Robert Davidson.

Ron Mueck creates incredibly realistic sculptures of humans, all scaled greater or lesser than life sized. J was enthralled by one of a giant man, sitting in a corner in a poise reminiscent of Rodin's “The Thinker”. My favorite was of an exhausted mother with a newborn infant on her deflated stomach, still attached together by the baby's umbilical cord.

Robert Davidson is a Haida artist and sculptor. Feeling that his work was becoming stale and recycled, he turned to studying tribal designs on bowls and other objects as inspiration to create a series of stylized, abstract paintings, carvings and sculptures.

Burned out on great art we decided to have a meal and walk around the city. I was unable to capture my favorite moment on film as the feeling of squeamishness at taking a photograph of a homeless man's possessions outweighed the sense of irony at reading his handwritten sign “On a break, back in fifteen minutes”. To earn money he would write a poem on any subject and I had no money for poetry that day.

Randomness

Calabogie
Ontario, Canada

I have not been writing. I have not been writing because I have been immersed in the world of Hogwarts, re-reading all the Harry Potter novels in anticipation of the release of Year 7. However, I have left Harry in the midst of his battle of wills with Professor Umbridge in Year 5 to drive with J to Calabogie, Ontario for a week in the wilderness.

We left Pittsburgh early on Sunday morning, driving through a fog so thick the buildings downtown completely disappeared into the mist. It took several hours of driving before the fog burned off enough to see the lights of cars instead of vague outlines. As we drove north the signs of spring faded away and we found ourselves regressing back into winter, with overcast skies and snow on the ground.

Our drive was punctuated by sheer randomness, a semi-truck carrying a toll both north, the sight of a Canadian goose perched on the ledge of a five story building, a second goose staring up at the first from the ground. The most random moment came at the border, shortly after crossing the St. Lawrence River, when the guard asked us if we intended to leave anything in the country. Both J and myself were puzzled by this question and it took us several moments to formulate an answer (“No”) that was not snarky.

The St. Lawrence River is one of the most beautiful, dotted with islands tiny and large, stretching for miles in both directions, leaving an impression of green among the greys and browns of the winter landscape. As we drove we could see glimpses of houses on some of the islands and wondered aloud how the residents were able to access their homes in the winter.

Our cellular phones do not work this far north, so we turned them off without guilt. The local stores close early on Sunday, leaving us unable to purchase groceries as originally planned. Our choice of restaurant had one server working, an older woman who entertained us with stories of accidental deaths, drunk driving arrests and her experiences serving intoxicated patrons. She gave us a friendly warning when we left to watch out for the police at night.

The condo is clean, cozy and overlooks the still frozen lake.

This afternoon J and I drove to Perth, Ontario between thunderstorms for a brief walk around the town. Named Ontario's Prettiest City, the downtown is filled with old stone buildings, including a mill.

Home Team

It is probably uncharitable to suggest that Phil Bourqe (the “Ol' Two-Niner”) may have imbibed one too many beers during last night's Penguins / Sabres match. He may not be all that good at adding the numbers “1” or “2” to a running points totals for teams in the “circonference”

And it is definitely uncharitable for me to laugh even harder at Bourqe's frustrated, nervous chuckle when Mike Lange (not so) innocently asked him to recap the League standings. By the time Lange announced that Bourqe would not be joining Steigy for the post game show, I was having trouble breathing.

Last night's game was hockey at it's best. Fast and skilled with referees smart enough to let the game flow organically and allow two of the top teams in the conference to play it out with minimal interference. The crowd was the loud, happy and Buffalo was well represented by the fans.

But the highlight of the evening was what happened before the game, when Mario Lemieux made the announcement that the Penguins would be staying in Pittsburgh for the next thirty years.

In celebration, I offer up hockey fights.

A Junior A hockey Fight

They must have learned from their elders

Ritual

The Catholic ritual of the funeral remains a constant, unchanged mark in a mourner's life. We stand, we face the back of the church, we watch as the priest blesses the coffin for the deceased final mass.

We watch as the pallbearers gently escort the coffin down the aisle, lead by the priest, followed by husband and son, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. Our bodies turn from the back to the front as the mourners sing.

There are more blessings, the readings, the sermon, communion, another blessing, eulogies and a final goodbye. The coffin is wheeled back down the aisle for one last journey, to a grave or crematorium.

The music sounds out of place. How can one sing while feeling such loss?

The husband can barely walk. Each step is an effort, as if he cannot remember how. He holds his hands in front of him, his fingers full of nervous energy. His face is broken.

The son is stoic and will not look anyone in the eye. He stands straight, he walks a few steps in front, a few steps in back of his father. His face is wooden, contained.

No one stays for the cookies and coffee. We have not the appetite for sugar and small talk. We watch as the hearse, limo and long line of cars drive away from the church.

Dear "Anonymous"

You know that little icon at the bottom of the page? It is for a program called "Site Meter". The great thing about site meter is that I can trace your IP.

Next time you feel like flaming me, use your OWN name, OK?

Kisses.

Jenn

In Memoriam - JoJo

I'm out of words tonight. One of my mother's oldest and closest friends, a woman I have known for almost thirty years died early this week. She was 57.

I don't have the right words to explain what JoJo meant to me. She was not a parental figure. She was not a role model in the traditional sense of the word. But she was there in my life, someone I have known for as long as I can remember, a small, funky woman who lived loud.

She was there when I was a child in her home, with my favorite book (Gnomes by Rien Poortvliet and Wil Huygen) ready for me to read over and over again. She stood in as my confirmation sponsor, and sat in the bleachers at my high school graduation. As I moved into college and graduate school she cheered my nerve and supported my desire to become independent. She cried at my wedding and was the first to demand photographs when I returned from my first solo trip to Paris.

She marveled at the opportunities I had, the chances I took that never crossed her path. Through her eyes I was smarter, stronger, braver, and more adventurous then I felt in real life.

Shortly after retiring she was diagnosed with an aggressive and rare brain tumor. For almost three years she subjected herself to repeated rounds of radiation; surgery and finally chemotherapy. She lost her hair more than once and grew physically brittle from all the poisons used to try to save her life.

She died on Monday night, surrounded by the people who loved her, the people she loved.

I Dated Lord Voldemort*

Subtitle: Signs you might be dating the wrong man.

He was one of those guys who looked good in theory. He was smart, well educated, traveled extensively and had a job. He was also a graduate student and understood the demands of balancing a full course schedule with a almost-full-time job.

Things are great at first. Conversation is wonderful. He has interesting ideas. His parents like me. We have a good time together.

With all those good qualities, it was easy to overlook the fact that he preferred to drive the five blocks to his gym to work out. That he sulked when he perceived that he was not getting his “way”. That every public outing turned into an argument over how much time I spend staring at other men. That his confession that he fantasized about having sex another man was simply a healthy display of sexuality. That he dropped classes on a whim.

I blame myself for the problems we were having. I'm still bruised over J** ending our relationship, my first love gone awry. I decide I need more time on my own.

Forward a year. We meet cute in a local restaurant. I decide to be civilized. We start dating again. For a very short period of time things go well.

Then the fights start up again. I can't go anywhere with him because I am subjected to abuse over my “wandering eyes”. He wants me to “confess” that I want to sleep with other men, that I find them more attractive then him. More sulking fits when I refuse to tell him what he wants to hear. Intense pressure to give him permission to purchase me a cell phone.

He goes away for a weekend. He calls shortly after his return. I tell him that I don't want to see him again, that he makes me feel bad about myself and I don't think there is anything about me that I need to feel bad about. He says that is untrue, that my feeling bad has nothing to do with him. He says breaking up “isn't going to work for me”. That he thinks there is more he can get out of our relationship.

I respond that breaking up works just fine for me. I hang up the phone. I go on to date other, nicer men. My heart breaks a second time, but I survive. J comes back.

*Bonus points if you can guess what relationship the man in question has to a villain in a series of children's novels.
**Yes, J my husband.

Asides:

1: How do you know when a team is really bad? When they can't win a game in spite of the pushing, whining, outright cheating and the possession of three out of four referees on their payroll.

I am not saying the Penguins played a fantastic game today. They were terrible. But the awfulness that is this year's Flyers was a thing of beauty. So was the Penguins sweeping the series. And Michel Therrien, normally stoic during games, earning a bench minor late in the first period for calling the referees (collectively) a very inappropriate name.

2: The tendinitis in my right wrist has returned, forcing me back into a most uncomfortable brace when doing computer work to avoid a deep, throbbing pain from wrist to elbow that keeps me awake at night. I'll also have to resume the sporadic physical therapy exercises I'm supposed to be doing every day.

Today's Lesson

Brought to you by the letter “L”.

Today's Lesson – Stay off the political blogs during staff meetings (really, stay off them altogether during work hours) less I give co-worker “L” the mistaken impression that I am pregnant and considering an abortion. Thus driving L, a deeply religious and conservative man to ask me in private if I was considering having an abortion and wanting to let me know that there are other alternatives.

He was relieved to learn that I was neither pregnant nor considering an abortion and that I was not offended by the question. On the contrary, I thought it was very nice of him to express concern and thought he did so in a sensitive and non-judgmental manner.

The irony – I normally do stay off those sites during staff meetings. But it was my third such meeting of the day and I was completely burned out.

In other news...

James Cameron produced a documentary called the Lost Tomb of Christ, scheduled to air on the Discovery Channel on Sunday night. Naturally since it suggests that Jesus actually died, remained deceased and (oh the horror!) was married, it has ruffled more than a few feathers, including those of a letter writer to the Post Gazette.

I'm not sure what amused me most about the letter. It was short and to the point. It was strangely logical. It managed to get an insult in at the “Hollywood elite”. It made me wonder if the writer was using “elite” as a code word for “Jewish”.

Or maybe it was that the writer was giving any credibility to James Cameron. Since I am of the minority that believe that Titanic is a truly terrible movie*, I find it difficult to take the documentary seriously anyway.

*Right behind Gone With the Wind, a movie that sends me into hysterical laughter every time I watch it.

God Grew Tired of Us

John Bul Dau is a Sudanese Lost Boy, a Dinka. At the age of 13 he was forced to flee his home and walk a thousand miles, first to Uganda, then to Kenya. At the age of 13 he says he was tall and looked older – so he was put in charge of the care of 1,200 younger children. To worry about feeding them. To comfort the scared and the sick and bury the dead.

John Bul Dau is one of the lucky ones. At the age of 23 he was chosen for asylum in the United States. Catholic Charities assisted him and three other Lost Boys in relocating to Syracuse, New York. There, he worked two, sometimes three jobs to send money to the boys left behind in the camps.* He put off his dream of attending college to aid his family; the father, mother and six other siblings who somehow survived the civil war. He worked, and continues to work, tirelessly to encourage the other transplanted lost boys to maintain their identities as Africans and educate the public about the violence that robbed him of his home and family.

John Bul Dau is possibly one of the most beautiful human beings I have ever seen.

The film also follows the stories of Daniel Abol Pach and Panther Blor, who find asylum in Pittsburgh. It was painful to see the worst qualities of the residents of my city on screen. How the merchants called the police and complained when the boys came into their stores in large groups. The looks on the faces of some of the residents in Giant Eagle as the boys learned about bread and balloons. The sense of isolation that lead one of the boys to a mental breakdown.

It was rewarding to see the best qualities of the residents on screen. The store worker who gave away doughnuts so the boys would learn what sprinkles tasted like. The little girls at the pool who chatted happily about the Sudan. The volunteer at Catholic Charities who taught the boys how to turn on a light switch, adjust the shower and guided them through the piles of paperwork.

It was strange to see my city through the eyes of strangers.

*The boys also had to repay the United States government for the cost of the plane ticket to the U.S.

So Strange I Can't Pass it Up

Between now and July 1...

• I will not look at the cost of flights.
• I will go to the airport early to see if I can fly standby on an earlier flight.
• I will wire the landlord an advance for the apartment I am renting, to make sure that I have a place to stay in case I am a victim of the law of averages again.
• I will not take my computer with me this year.
• I will remember to put a clean shirt and pair of underwear in my carry on, in case my luggage goes missing again.
• I will not purchase that wide angle zoom lens since I need money to pay for my $1286.30 plane ticket.
• I will, however, order the CDMA/GSM phone with AC & European power adapters, so J can stop worrying about me wandering European streets alone.

In other news I had an interesting IM exchange with a co-worker this afternoon. Due to the nature of my employment, my schedule has been crazy and I will have 20 hours of overtime this pay period by the end of the day tomorrow.

I am hoping that the lack of sleep is the reason why W decided to tell me that her husband had “fallen off the porn wagon again”. In the context of her recent admission that one of her previous jobs was data entry at a porn distributor, I could not help but wonder where she met her husband and how she defines falling off the porn wagon. Did he fall a little bit off, as in cracking open a Playboy and claiming he was reading the articles? Did he rent a video? Go on a bender and buy out the store? Does he have a serious addiction that requires therapy?

I am flummoxed.

Pan's Labyrinth (El Laberinto del Fauno)

J was unsurprised when I insisted on seeing this movie on Friday night. As I am a huge fan of folk/fairy tales and legends, watching this movie was an absolute must and I had a great time spending two hours dissecting the source material.

Guillermo del Toro borrows from British, Greek, Roman, Danish, German and Christian mythology* to weave together a story almost unbearably brutal, so violent in places that I had to turn my head away from the screen and wait for J to tell me when it was OK to look again. Characters are struck, beaten to death, tortured and shot. One scene shows the amputation of a man's leg.

In Ofelia's (Ophelia) fantasy world the creatures are strange, the fairies are not pretty and there are monsters everywhere, a mirror reflection of her real life. She must face fantastical creatures including a giant toad and the Pale Man, a horrible creature who sees through eyes in his hands.

The two most significant complaints about the movie are that it is not appropriate for children and that it was too derivative. The underlying assumptions of these complaints is that the only appropriate audience for mythology is children and all forms of fantasy must be purely original. If that is the case, then I should turn in my Harry Potter, my Hans Christian Anderson and my collection of tales from the Brother's Grimm and immerse myself in Disney cartoons until I choke.

*Mythology in the all-inclusive, generic sense of the word.

Dear New YMCA Members

I think that it is great that you decided to join a gym. I remember how difficult it was to get used to working out with a whole bunch of strange people, always worrying about a stray bead of sweat or that someone will walk off with my towel.

Please feel free to stop by the desk and get directions to the locker room. While you are there, have one of the staff introduce you to this really neat little invention called a “lock”. See with a lock you can store you stuff in an equally interesting object called a “locker” without worrying about someone stealing it. If you don't have a lock, you can turn over your driver's license and a member of the staff will loan you one for the duration of your workout.

Imagine how nice it will be to move from station to station without lugging your coat, scarf, hat, backpack and extra pair of sweatpants with you! Imagine how grateful other patrons will be to have one less obstacle to trip over.

Please stop carrying the disinfectant spray bottles from station to station. I don't know if you noticed, but there actually is a finite number of bottles. That number is significantly lower than the number of people working out at any given moment. And while we are discussing this, please stop giving me an ugly look when I use “your” spray bottle to wipe down a machine. Finite number of bottles, remember?

Is it really necessary to remain attached to your cell phone during a workout? Really?

Is it really necessary to pout when you cannot get a treadmill next to your friend? Really?

Cold Day

It was so bitterly cold today that I waited until sunrise to walk to my bus stop in the mad hope that it would be marginally warmer then 3 degrees below zero. I was rewarded with -2 degree temperatures and my favorite on bus entertainment.

My favorite meth addicts were back on the bus today, bundled up and the conversation was rocking. Literally – it centered around one man's “vintage” Pink Floyd t-shirts, circa 2002, which he intended to leave to his children and his (female) companion's tenuous connection to an autographed Keith Richards guitar, complete with pick. Her Keith Richards-guitar-story set the man off on a rant about how hard David Bowie is on his guitars and how amazing it is that Bowie is able to get any sound out it. From that he segued into how much of hack Keith Richards is as a guitar playing, stealing riffs and techniques from other players and that, essentially, he “sucked”.

During my mercifully brief walk to my office, I reflected on the idea that a t-shirt could be an heirloom and wondered if one purchased in 2002 could actually count as “vintage”. Downtown Pittsburgh was so empty and so cold that I abandoned the notion of stopping at Starbucks and headed straight to my office.

I also elected to skip the gym in favor of getting home before the temperature dropped even further with the setting of the sun. Back in my house, I turned up the thermostat and made a mug of hot tea, grateful that my furnace was still working and my pipes were unfrozen, unlike one of my hapless co-workers.

Now the house is warm, Lucy is snuggly and I just finished half listening / half watching Rick Sebak's goofy documentary Sandwiches That You Will Like. Which I have on DVD.* The extras include the "Mystery" made by the now defunct Chiodo's Tavern.**

* I also purchased the companion cookbook.
** The tavern is now a parking lot for a Walgreen's.

Sad Day

Molly Ivins died today. One of the wittiest and smartest women in the universe just died.

Rest in peace Molly. You will be missed.

Thanks for fighting for the rest of us.

Alternet
New York Times
Yahoo News

I Have Too Many Books

My buying spree is coming back to haunt me as I look at the piles of unread and partially finished tomes on my nightstand. My study is overrun with finished reads, stacked double on the shelves with more piled on top and two huge stacks on the floor. If I gave up part of the space for the stationary I never use anymore and the stereo, I would have a shelf and a half more room. But then Lucy Snowe* would have nowhere to hide.

My other option is to actually get rid of some of the books, but I'm not very good at doing that. I hoard books. Not only the ones I have finished, but the ones I have yet to read. My current reading list is huge primarily because I can't decide what to read next.

My current reading list:

The Poetry of Pablo Neruda.
There should never be a deadline to completing a book of poems. Especially when they are written by Pablo Neruda. I have been reading this one slowly over the last several months.

The Men Who Stare at Goats – Jon Ronson.
I'm halfway through Ronson's trip into the bizarre world that is Psych Ops of the United States military.

Kiss Tomorrow Hello: Notes from the Midlife Underground by Twenty-Five Women Over Forty – Edited by Kim Barnes and Claire Davis.
Because it is never too early to start a mid-life crisis.

The Black Book – Orhan Pamuk
I have not started this one yet. The problem with Pamuk is that he demands your full attention as a reader and I'm not ready to give it to this book. If it is anything like my experience with Snow, it will take me about two years to finish.

Home Game: Hockey and Life in Canada – Ken Dryden and Roy MacGregor
Ken Dryden graduated from Cornell University, played for the Montreal Canadiens, earned a law degree and now serves in Parliament. Don't ever tell me hockey players are stupid.

If you want a better understanding of hockey, read his first book The Game.

Zamboni Rodeo: Chasing Hockey Dreams from Austin to Albuquerque – Jason Cohen
Life in the Western minor leagues of hockey.

Love – Angela Carter
I love fairy tales and did my senior writing project on Cinderella. Angela wrote the best modern interpretations of classic fairy tales I have ever read. At some point I will take the mere two hours to complete this novella.

The City of Angels – John Berendt
I have heard such awful things about this book that I am afraid to pick it up. I really should give it back to my father.

My Kind of Place: Travel Stories from a Woman Who's Been Everywhere – Susan Orleans
Susan Orleans has my dream life and job. If I could be anyone, I would be her.

The Wild Party – Joseph Moncure. Drawings by Art Spiegelman
Great poem, fantastic drawings. Another one I am reading slowly.

Someone I Loved (Je l'aimais) – Anna Gavalda
The cute Swedish guy who treated me to dinner in Paris last summer was a big fan of Anna Gavalda and suggested her. Popular in Europe, she has not caught on in the United States yet, although one of her novels in being turned into a film.

This Blinding Absence of Light – Tahar Ben Jelloun
Corruption – Tahar Ben Jelloun
More French writers. Tahar Ben Jelloun is brutal.

Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood – Marjane Satrapi
Persepolis: The Story of a Return – Marjane Satrapi


*I was deep into Villette when I found Lucy underneath a car in a mall parking lot in Greensboro, North Carolina.

Angry Motorized Scooter Guy

I may have alluded to Angry Motorized Scooter Guy in past entries. AMSG is exactly as described – a very angry, somewhat overweight man who rides around my neighborhood in a “mobility scooter”, a flashy metallic red number complete with basket.

I was first introduced to AMSG on a street in downtown Pittsburgh. He was arguing with a bus driver over whether there was enough room for him to ride the bus. It was the position of the bus driver that there was not enough room on the bus. It was the position of AMSG that there was, indeed, enough room on the bus for him to board. The PAT driver relented and was proven correct in his estimation as AMSG was forced to stand, pick up his scooter and put it into place, thus making everyone on the bus wonder exactly what sort of handicap the man had.

Every since that first encounter, which ended with AMSG following me up the street to my house ranting the entire time about the insensitivity of PAT drivers, I have tried to avoid him. Successive encounters only verified my first impression – that he was a pretty angry guy. Most of his encounters with PAT drivers were combative in nature, to the point that drivers would actually pass him up if they saw him waiting at a stop.

But I witnessed a softer, gentler side of AMSG this morning. As usual, I left the house timed exactly to witness the passing of the four buses that seem to drive by my stop just as I am about to reach it. As I saw AMSG waiting at the stop, I took my time crossing the busway, assuming I would catch one out of the next set of five slated to pass by in twenty minutes.

As it turns out, AMSG was not able to board the bus because the chair ramp was broken. Not only did he let everyone else board before him, he also notified the driver that I was coming and held the bus for me, with only a single bitter comment about his inability to ride this particular bus.

Thanks AMSG!

Jenn's Adventures in Open Source Land

But first... There is something satisfying about seeing a vehicle parked across from the Pittsburgh Parking Court get a ticket.

If someone had told me five years ago that I would spend my days in front of a computer testing prototypes, I would have laughed at him. If someone had told me that I would spend hours of my time trying to find an open source emulator for a Macintosh host, I would have asked where he got the pot he just inhaled.

And yet, five years later, instead of earning an MLS and retreating to the bookish world of librarian ship*, I find myself spending an obscene amount of free trying to hunt down an open source emulator just so I can install an obscure, open source operating system on my iBook for the express purpose of learning how to use it – for work.

Some days I wake up and don't recognize myself.

*Caveat: Librarians, especially modern librarians are anything but bookish. There is a reason for the “hot librarian” fantasy. Smart women are sexy.

Fight Night

But first, yet another reason not to fly Continental this summer.

Last night J and I attended a second Penguins/Leafs game, a game in which Pittsburgh pounded Toronto into submission figuratively and literally to a final score of 8-2. It is the highest scoring game I have seen in my five years of regular attendance in Mellon Arena.

I knew it was going to be an interesting night when I saw a security guard escorting a drunk Leaf fan out of the arena before the game began. The fan was quite polite about the situation.

More interesting than the score was the number of fights that broke out on and off the ice. Toronto does not like to lose, and as the points piled up, so did the pushing, shoving, illegal hits, outright punches and penalties.

Off ice, in the stands, the fighting was so distracting that half of the arena missed the Leafs second goal (myself included) because we were too busy watching arena security breaking up a fight and escorting brawling fans out the building.

On the way back to our car I stopped to give a group of very happy Leafs fans some directions. They had driven the whole way from Toronto for the game. I felt bad about the fact they drove all that way to watch such a spectacular loss and said “Oh, I'm so sorry”.

“No, don't be sorry”, the man replied. “Great city, great fans, great game. We had a blast”. Then one of his friends offered me twenty dollars for giving the group directions.

Found Objects

From the low point that was Sunday breakfast, J took me to a starving artist sale and to Gabriel Brother's to look at clothes.

After looking at the wonderfully bad art I dashed off to the restroom. While in the stall I spotted a piece of scrap paper lying on the toilet tissue holder. Curious, I opened the paper to this...

“Chef – piece of Bone in pork loin – woman bit down on & was very displeased Said pork “loin” is suppose to be boneless – Dirty Silver”.

Hmm... I don't have any theories. I just thought the note was fascinating. Maybe I'll send it to Found Magazine. (Confession: I once left a love letter in a very public place. I came back later in the day and discovered it was gone. I've been checking out Found's website ever since on the off chance it gets submitted).

My other comfort this week (aside from the peace offering of irises, roses and carnations from J) was the arrival of the huge order I placed from Amazon. The only book that did not come in was Joseph Moncure's The Wild Party, illustrated by Art Spiegelman. I wanted a hardcover copy, which I had to order through Powell's Books.

And the dental hygienist who cleaned my teeth on Monday said I had “very expressive eyebrows”.

In Other (Horrifying) News

Three pregnant teenagers assaulted their caretaker with a frying pan and escaped from the New Hope Maternity home in American Fork, Utah earlier today.

A maternity home. In 2007.

I skimmed some of the headlines for the 27 articles listed in Google News. The majority of the articles used the phrase “whacked” to describe the assault, which I found to be an unfortunate choice of words, as it made me laugh over a tragic situation.

What kind of parent, in 2007, feels like they need to isolate their daughter by sending her to a maternity home? What kind of pro-life bullshit is that? To proclaim that all life is sacred, then slut-shame your daughter by hiding her away?

Milestone

I think I bounced my first check ever today, an automated draft for gym fees. In all the years on my own, when I was so poor that my dad had to pay my taxes and my heating bill, I have never bounced a check. I'm still waiting to see which way the equation money in / money out goes.

I did not get paid last week. My company's payroll, sent to the processing company for deposit in our accounts, was overlooked and the mistake was not caught until almost noon on Friday, and only because one of my co-workers emailed the owner (who resides on the West Coast) to tell him that no one in my office got their paychecks. The owner was apologetic, added an extra hundred dollars to each employee's paycheck and will reimburse us for any financial charges due to the mishap. But it still leaves me broke until sometime Tuesday afternoon.

So I am playing what seems to be a common sport for most of my friends, the odds that the funds I transferred when I realized I did not have enough money to cover the draft, are credited before the YMCA attempts to get its money.

Which leads me into the tension fraught ordeal which was having J's parents in our house for Sunday breakfast.

J and I are in trouble right now. Our decision to forgo all family Christmas activities in exchange for a peaceful Noel created a considerable amount of controversy in J's extended family. Since Christmas day we have been subjected to passive-aggressive remarks about our non-attendance at Borg family holiday events. In an attempt to stop further commentary (and so we can take down the Christmas decorations this week) J invited his parents to the house for breakfast on Sunday.

Tensions between J's father and myself are to the point that I spent most of the week prior to the visit nursing a low level migraine (complete with nausea) while J was less than his sunny self. Both of us were anticipating the dropping of another emotional bomb and dreading it.

Into this environment came J's parents. The FIL first shot was at the fruit I had carefully cut up into a salad for the meal. Apparently the addition of mango taints the other fruits and “ruins” the salad.

The meal went downhill from there and hit a low point as I began the story of my missing paycheck, only to hear “They are paying you what you are worth then” come out of that man's mouth, followed by a lecture about not having overdraft protection on my account.

I left the table and contemplated murder. I did the dishes. I listened to “jokes” about how nice it was that I was helping out around the house. I contemplated divorce (not for the first time). I made some more tea for myself. I managed to stay out of the dining room for the rest of the meal. I got one crack in when he asked about the noise in the basement and I responded by telling him that the noise was being made by my first father-in-law.

He did not find that joke very funny. Score one against the bully.

I am convinced that if J's brother had not stopped to visit, there would have been a fight. It would have been ugly. And it probably would have ended in me leaving the house.

May You Live in Interesting Times

I am currently not under a curse and have been living in mostly dull times for the past two weeks. The highlights so far seem to have been seeing a former student in my hometown's liquor store, the exchange with the transexual / cross-dresser / drag queen on New Year's Eve and the huge order I placed tonight with Amazon for a stack of books, including Jon Ronson's The Men Who Stare at Goats and a DVD of the Royal National Theatre performing The Merchant of Venice.

One the books I am currently lusting after, but did not order, is a three volume graphic novel called Lost Girls, written by Alan Moore and Melinda Gebbie, primarily because of the authors' reinvention of the characters Wendy, Dorothy, and Alice. The book is insanely expensive and has been criticized as “pornographic”.

From the spring of 1999 to May of 2003 I worked at my former high school as a substitue teacher and librarian. I taught primarily middle school students, with occasional guest appearances in AP English to lecture about narrative styles using Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space' and teach Frankenstein. I ended up loving my middle school students, especially one group of bright, funny, fun kids.

Two days before Christmas J and I stopped in at the liquor store to grab a bottle of Bailey's. As I wandered through the store I was stopped by one of those former students, now in college and almost unrecognizable. And she was happy to see me.

This past sunday, the FIL continued in his quest to get me to submit to the family borg. First by implying that I was lazy for not getting back to him soon enough on a recommendation of a digital camera. I was especially irritated because he failed to inform me that he needed the information quickly. I shall be vindicated as the camera he purchased from eBay is an off label brand from an unknown company. If it breaks, which it will, he is completely out of luck.

While driving around Western PA this weekend, I managed to catch most of the interview with the organizers of the Helsinki Complaints Choir on Weekend Edition. While the concept of a complaint choir is not new, I found the interview highly entertaining.

This Entry Rated "R" for Adult Content

“You're too cute to be with guys!” said cross-dresser? transsexual? drag queen? in the Lava Lounge last night after I broke the news I was married. She tried to charge me a kiss for taking her photograph. When I turned her down, she tried to persuade me that J would enjoy watching.

Not so much, I assured her. She shrugged her shoulders and began flirting with the other patrons. I laughed and recounted the exchange for K, as it was too loud for her to follow our conversation.

Last night I put on a dress more expensive than my wedding gown*, put my hair up and slipped on a pair of 2” patent leather black pumps to go out to dinner with seven other people.

This year it was at Mallorca, dinner for eight at the civilized hour of nine pm. There was some debate over the time when J made the reservation, as certain members of our party were concerned that if the complicated equation of win/losses worked out, they would miss the final Steelers game, the one that would put them in the playoffs.

The Steelers lost on Christmas Eve, thus ending the debate.

Mallorca is an odd restaurant. The food is excellent, but the service can be uneven. We arrived early to have a drink at the bar and wait for the rest of the members of our party. When the final two members arrived, we were hustled to our table only to discover that it was only partially set and missing napkins, silverware and glassware. After multiple attempts, one in our party managed to flag down a staff member to get napkins for the entire table.

Once we had all the appropriate tableware and drinks, we settled in to enjoy the rest of the meal. During the meal we were entertained by the delivery of meal flambéed in a dish the shape of a pig to one of the tables and cheers from the kitchen when one of the waiters carried in a round of beers for the cooks.

Until dessert. In which my streak of being unable to receive the first (or sometimes second) item I order remains unbroken. This time it was the tiramisu. Which was served to two other members of our group before I was informed that the kitchen had run out.

The staff was rather distressed when I exclaimed “Oh, no!” and began laughing. One of the guys who received his order of tiramisu offered to give it up, but I waved him off and ordered the chocolate cake instead.

Post dinner was spent at the aforementioned Lava Lounge, where the girls danced to 80's hits, the guys stood at the bar watching the coats/bags/cameras and we all made a lot of noise when the ball dropped.

*I acknowledge the sheer vanity of posting a photo of myself in the dress. I don't care.

Quiz Time

I'm actually working on a real post, but curiousity got the better of me and I had to take this quiz.

What Kind of Reader Are You? Your Result: Obsessive-Compulsive Bookworm You're probably in the final stages of a Ph.D. or otherwise finding a way to make your living out of reading. You are one of the literati. Other people's grammatical mistakes make you insane.
Dedicated Reader
Book Snob
Literate Good Citizen
Fad Reader
Non-Reader
What Kind of Reader Are You? Create Your Own Quiz

Another New Photo for a New Year

Reflections 1, originally uploaded by lcuy2 (Jenn).

Phipps Conservatory, Oakland, Pittsburgh PA.

A New Photo for a New Year

Reflections 2, originally uploaded by lcuy2 (Jenn).

Taken during a recent trip to Phipps Conservatory

Penguins vs Maple Leafs

J and I took a friend's son to see his first hockey game Friday night. JM is from South Carolina, where there is not a whole lot of hockey, but has been sports exposed enough to know about Sidney Crosby. BM has seen professional hockey before, but the Columbus Blue Jackets actually make the Penguins look competent, so watching a game in Mellon Arena was a whole new experience.

The Penguins returned our investment by beating the Maple Leafs 4 – 1, the first time they have managed to win a game against Toronto, at least on home ice, since 2001.

If you want to introduce someone to the sport of hockey, I cannot think of a better way to do it then take them to a Leafs game. Leafs fans travel well, an attribute you don't normally see in hockey. This is a product born of the difficulty and expense in obtaining tickets in Toronto and the relatively close distance of teams in Buffalo (Sabres), Detroit (Red Wings) and Pittsburgh (Penguins). I'm not sure if they go the distance to Columbus, but I would not be surprised if they did.

It makes for a fun game, as the number of fans from the opposing team is audible, enthusiastic and friendly, from singing “Oh Canada” to good natured taunting of happy Pens fans on the way home about the team's imminent departure from the city of Pittsburgh. Ouch.

JM even got to watch a fight. Between Jarkko Rutuu and Ben Ondru during the second period.

Have a safe and Happy New Year.

Christmas 2006

Day 1 – December 23

In which we successfully dodge the family ambush...

We decided to get the family visits out of the way, while I am still sick enough to easily justify staying home in bed. Trying to wrap presents Saturday morning was a chore, as my mind and reflexes were stuck on one speed – molasseses, with a memory retention of five minutes. Rare is it for me to be so out of it, even when I am feeling unwell. J ended up wrapping the majority of the gifts for both of our families.

After some tea we set off for my parents home in DuBois (the home the hot dog stuffed with peanut butter, in case that monstrosity has slipped from memory) to drop off gifts. My parents had us open our presents. Then we hit the road again to make it to a Christmas party hosted by J's cousin.

But first, a stop at J's parents to drop off another load of gifts, complete with the frantic scramble to remember the alarm code. After tucking the presents underneath the tree, we headed to J's cousin for some holiday merriment.

J's family Christmas celebrations are usually dry affairs. Imagine my shock to discover that J's cousin stocked the garage with beer, the counter with liquor and wine and the fridge with plenty of soda, seltzer and water for mixing.

It turned out I needed the single Strawberry Daiquiri I imbibed during dinner, as J's aunt ambushed him for an explanation as to why we would not be attending Wigilia this year. The ambush continued as we went through the process of saying our goodbyes. In spite of J's repeated assertions that we would not be spending the night, would not be having dinner with the extended family on Christmas Eve and had most of next weekend booked with activities with friends, various family members simply refused to believe that any of his statements were true.

By the time we made it home it was late, we were exhausted and I had a massive headache.

Day 2 – December 24

Last Minute Shopping...

J woke earlier to visit the Strip District to pick up the ingredients for Christmas dinner while I slept. When I woke, it was a clear head and more energy than I've had in the past two weeks, enough energy to finish the last minute shopping I had been putting off because I was so tired.

Sundays in winter mean Steeler games, and Christmas Eve was not exception. The Waterfront was quiet, the traffic almost manageable, the general population of shoppers congenial. As a bonus, I found a dress to wear on New Year's Eve.

It took me most of the afternoon to finish up. As the day was beautiful and most people were merry, I did not mind wandering aimlessly around in the sunshine.

The highlight of the afternoon was an exchange with a shopper in the line at Giant Eagle. As we waited for the cashier to ring up her groceries, we overheard a conversation in the next lane over, in which two women mocked those (myself included) who would use a check/debit card to pay for small purchases. As the cashier announced the (substantial)total on the woman's groceries, she turned to me and said “Do you think the debit card police would approve of me?” which made us both laugh.

I made J open one of his presents early, a volume of Animaniacs cartoons on DVD. We spent the evening watching episodes from the DVD.

Day 3 – Christmas Day

Holly, Jolly, Peaceful Christmas...

After opening gifts, J happily set up train track in the dining room to terrorize the three cats and alternately nagged me to crack open the iPod Shuffle he gave me so he can see how it works.

I have a 40GB iPod which I use to back up all my music and take on trips. I asked for a smaller one to take to the gym, and he obliged. He also raided my Amazon wish list for ideas, so I now have an enormous pile of books to read, mostly non-fiction. He even managed to track down some obscure hockey books from my list and special ordered them (although some have not made it to our door yet).

I did nothing today. It was glorious.

Be Careful What you Wish For

I had hoped for some semi-cataclysmic event (like a snowstorm) to trap me in my house over the holidays so I could stay home guilt free.

I got the flu. From J's niece.

Not the event I was hoping for. Damn.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Ten A.M.

10:00 a.m. on Wednesday, December 20th is when the State Gaming Control Board will award the single slots license for the city of Pittsburgh.

It is also the hour when fans learn whether the Penguins will stay or go. It is evident from events of the past several days that it is an either/or situation. Either Isle of Capri is awarded the license and the Penguins get a new arena, or the team will be moving.

I have a lot more to say, but it will have to wait.

I Have Nothing to Say

Seriously. I've been so tired the past week that I'm falling asleep at 9:30 pm. It is not as it there has not been interesting things occurring in the past week. I've just been too tired to write about it.

In the past week I've managed to fight off an ambush to our holiday plans, learn how “yinzer” some of our friends are and been thrown into managing a project at work with absolutely no experience, without a raise in pay.

The ambush came from J's family last weekend, when we went down to spend the day. J forgot to tell me that he had told his parents we would be spending Christmas Eve and day in our home. When his mom started making assumptive statements about our attendance at dinner, I lied and told her we were going to my parents.

Whoops.

The ambush continued at lunch, with J's sister urging me to drop our New Year's eve plans and drive to Latrobe to have dinner with them instead. I lost track of the number of times I explained that...

1. We already had dinner reservations.
2. With eight other people.
3. At 9 pm.
4. As we have done for the past five years.
5. And no, we were not changing them.

Later in the week we learned how “yinzer*” one couple we socialize with is when they decided (after we had made the reservation) to forgo dinner and watch the final Steeler game of the season. Because the Steelers might still be in the running for the playoffs. And it could be Bill Cowher's last game. And a true fan obsessively watches every damn game, even when they have HD cable television and a DVR recorder.

And just to round the week out my boss resigned. Effective December 22. In order to cover her projects, I have been thrown into managing a small project passed off from a co-worker with no experience communicating with clients and only a fourth of a clue as to what I am doing.

And I still have to make cookies.

*A “yinzer” in this context is a stereotypical Pittsburgh native who also happens to be a rabid Steelers fan. “Yinz” is a contraction of “you ones” thus taking bad grammar to a whole new level never imagined by William Safire.

Voted Least Likely to Lead a Coup d'etat

How evil are you?


Kind of sad that even in a foul mood, I can't muster enough evil-ness to fake an internet quiz.

I'm Curious...

To discover whether the usual right-wing suspects get into an uproar over last night's episode of Scrubs in which a very pregnant Jordan tells J.D and Kim that she had an abortion at the age of 19. And says she did not regret it. And is matter-of-fact about it. Then goes back to cuddling her son.

Just a thought.

FYI - I just became hooked on the show several weeks ago and have been catching up by watching the re-runs on Comedy Central.

Ice Storm

My first exposure to the hysteria that surrounds bad weather was in the South. In Pennsylvania, it is assumed that winter will be accompanied with its share of bad storms. In North Carolina, people always seemed to be caught off guard, even when they had days to prepare. Every storm warning provoked a last minute rush to the grocery store for milk, bread, eggs and toliet paper to stock up in case the electricity went out.

Early February 1996, halfway through my first year of graduate school the Piedmont Triad Region of North Carolina was hit by an ice storm that knocked out power to 100,000 homes and businesses for several days.

At the time I was living on the first floor of an old house on North Spring Street with a roommate from Atlanta, Georgia.

S was one of the more interesting roommates in my history of sharing a space with another human being. She waited tables at a local pizza joint and spent a good portion of her spare time lying naked in her bed smoking and watching cable television. She quit her job to move to Greensboro so she could be closer to her (married) boyfriend, who was a city police officer.

Day One
S decides, after several hours of ice that we do not have enough candles. I drive my roommate several miles over icy roads to the only open K-Mart to stock up on candles, flashlights and batteries, just to shut her up.

I wake in the early hours of February 3 to flashing lights and the sound of multiple sirens. I discover that the Charles Ireland House, a historical landmark separated from our apartment by two lots, is burning down. The firemen are unable to get the blaze under control because the water keeps freezing. The house is destroyed beyond repair and is eventually torn down.

Day Two
I somehow make it to work, finish my shift and spend the remainder of the day making arrangements to stay with a family friend and studying as the apartment gets progressively colder.

S decides it would be fun to spend another night in the apartment, sans heat. Unwilling to allow her to freeze to death on her own, I elect to stay also. I pile every blanket I own on my futon, dress in multiple layers and wool socks and climb into bed. Lucy, my kitten, also climbs under the covers and remains firmly curled into my chest the entire night.

Day Three
I have the day off. I make sure that S is still alive and discover that her fish tank has frozen solid. I pack my clothes, my kitten and some supplies into my car and head to a classmate's room to review some notes. Matt is kind enough to allow Lucy to run around his room while we review. After we finish, I bundle the kitten into the car and head for warmth and safety.

Aftermath
S refuses to remove the now dead fish from the tank. It sits for several months, until the smell is almost unbearable. I elect to find my own apartment.

Slow Work Day

This morning I walked into my building to find two of my co-workers and several of the other office dwellers staring intently at the elevators. Normally the lobby is empty at seven a.m., so a crowd made me curious. I asked one of my co-workers if something was wrong with the elevators. She turned to the security guard to ask him if there was something wrong with the elevators. While this mini drama was developing, I decided to push the UP button.

And the elevator door opened. Instead of trying the doors for themselves, my co-workers and the other office dwellers took the word of one woman who claimed to have called the elevators. She had. By holding down the Down button.

Because today was spent trying to write a training document, I had a little more down time than usual to catch up on news in the world. Not necessarily on the most important subjects, but entertaining nonetheless.

Topic 1: A, You Sexy Finn*, This One is For You

Because every time I hear news from/about Finland I think of my friend from graduate school, A.

From Finland, via CNET News, comes the report that Prime Minister Matti Vanhanen, dubbed as "Finland's sexist man" by French President Jacques Chirac, dumped his girlfriend via text message.

Out of curiosity I checked Vanhanen's biography on Wikipedia. The photographs show a man who is cute in a Clark Kent sort of way and has terrible taste in ties. While reading, I came across this gem of a statement, under the section Personality: "Vanhanen has been characterized as uncharismatic and even boring..."

Are Jacques Chirac's standards really that low? Is uncharismatic, boring and reprehensible taste in ties** considered sexy in Finland?

*With apologies to the second-luckiest-woman in the world, A's wife, K.
**A really is one of the most adorable men (behind J) on the face of the planet. Especially when he wears his knit baby-blue ski cap with little white designs. A hat which screams for pom-poms on top.

Topic 2: File Under Greedy Bastards

As scholars begin debating the viability of the IRS taxing online gaming assets such as virtual loot.

Topic 3: Score One for the Democrats

John Bolton will be leaving his post as U.S. Envoy to the U.N at the expiration of his recess appointment. Even better, he resigned.

Poor Dennis Prager

Lamenting on Headline News about how he has not had a chance on eat in the past two days because he has been making the rounds of the talk shows.

Poor Dennis Prager (1), so offended because Keith Ellison, the first Muslim elected to Congress, has requested a Qur'an instead of a Bible when taking the oath of office for the United States House of Representatives.

Prager's only argument against using the Qur'an to take the oath of office is 'tradition'. Apparently every member of Congress ever, including Jewish and atheists, have laid their hand on “the most revered book in American history (2)” to take the oath of office.

I hate to taint my blog by linking to Prager's post at Town Hall or WorldNetDaily, but in the interest of fair and balanced discourse, I will grit my teeth this once. In the further interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I stopped taking him seriously after the phrases "because the act undermines American civilization" and the implication that taking the oath of office on the Qur'an was the moral equivalent of allowing a racist to use Mein Kempf (3).

Common sense dictates that if an American citizen is permitted a choice of holy books (the Bible, the Torah, the Qur'an) when taking an oath in court, then the choice of holy book used when taking an oath to upload the Constitution of the United States should be irrelevant.

(1) Yes, I am aware that Prager is Jewish.

(2) I respectfully disagree with this statement and posit the theory that the most revered book in American History is, in fact, Mark Twain's Huck Finn.

(3) For the love of all that is sacred, learn how to write or get an editor! Kill the hyperbole and remember that a book title, such as Mein Kampf is underlined, not placed in "quotations."